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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367245">CRAZY</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequadraticformula/pseuds/thequadraticformula'>thequadraticformula</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TWICE (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crazy, F/F</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:41:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequadraticformula/pseuds/thequadraticformula</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you decide to eat your breakfast this morning?"<br/>"I'm still scared that she's drugging it. You remember how bad I was when I did eat?"<br/>"She only drugs it because you try to escape."<br/>"I don't want to live here anymore."<br/>"But there's no escape. You might as well just give up."</p><p> </p><p>WARNING: Mentions of self harm and depictions of blood.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hirai Momo/Myoui Mina</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>CRAZY</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This work is crossposted on Wattpad and Asianfanfics under the user 'thequadraticformula'.<br/>DO NOT REPOST THIS WORK.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I don't know how to feel. I don't know what to feel. Any emotion that I seem to experience must be corrupted, because they make no sense. There are moments when something that is meant to be funny makes me cry. There are moments when I should be sad when I find a smile tugging at my lips. I guess the mystery of my emotions has become the only thing that keeps me sane.</p><p>I would spend countless hours sitting on my bed and writing. Just writing what I feel at that very moment, using the words as a mechanism of ordering my thoughts. Even then they remained elusive. The words turned into scratches and scribbles on paper. Obsessive markings. Repeated over and over. If anyone saw them, they would tell me that I've gone insane. I guess I have.</p><p>Some days, I would get sick of waiting and would instead create a conversation. Putting the tattered notebook on my bedside table, I would stand in front of the window. The back of it was patched with black paper, clumsily stuck to the glass with duct tape. This meant that no matter what time of day it was, I could see my reflection looking back at me.</p><p>Before I began to speak, I would sometimes scrutinise my reflection, deciding which parts I liked and which parts I didn't. I did like my hair. It was long, dark and shiny, framing my face almost perfectly. My eyes were nice too. Well, as nice as they might come. The good things stopped there. I hated how skinny I was. I haven't seen many people, but I knew I wasn't meant to watch my ribs poke through my skin as I breathed. My elbows were quite bony too, sticking out a little. They looked like they had been cut from a giant chicken and stitched to my shoulders. They were similar to the chicken wings I sometimes ate for dinner.</p><p>After evaluating my appearance, I would decide what to ask my reflection. Most days it was the same conversation.</p><p>"How have you been today, Mina?"</p><p>And my reflection replies: "Oh, you know. Just the same as always. Alone."</p><p>"But you have me, remember?"</p><p>"I'm a reflection. I have no one."</p><p>"I guess you're right."</p><p>When that got boring, I moved to a different topic. My reflection starts this one.</p><p>"Did you decide to eat your breakfast this morning?"</p><p>"I'm still scared that she's drugging it. You remember how bad I was when I did eat?"</p><p>"<em>She</em> only drugs it because you try to escape."</p><p>"I don't want to live here anymore."</p><p>"But there's no escape. You might as well just give up."</p><p>I don't like thinking about the drugs and <em>her</em>, so it was at that point I would bid my reflection farewell. Then I would search.</p><p>Searching for any sort of hint of a door other than the main one at the front which was always locked. I had about thirty minutes after my conversations and writing to find an escape. Then I had five minutes to pretend to be asleep so that when <em>she </em>came in, she wouldn't talk for long. She was very punctual, so I needed to be fast.</p><p>Today I ran my hands across the ceiling. It was plain and white with six LED lights spaced evenly across the surface. To the naked eye it looked like a smooth surface with no imperfections, but when I ran my hand over it, any bump or crevice in the paint could be a secret latch or a button. Anything could be my key to escape.</p><p>I often started to laugh while searching. Because it was funny. I'd searched every crease and crack and fold in this room. I knew it so well that I could probably live normally with my eyes closed. I'd searched the ceiling so many times. I couldn't even count. There were no latches. There were no buttons. It was just a slab of gyprock with six LED lights. It was just a ceiling. And it was funny, because no matter how many times I told myself this, I would search.</p><p>I stood down from the chair I was standing on to reach the ceiling and felt an emotion I hadn't felt in a while. Anger. I was so angry. My laughing was replaced by a scream of frustration and hot tears streamed down my cheeks and onto my shirt. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to hurt something.</p><p>The feeling was almost exhilarating. I picked up the chair and threw it into the wall, leaving a dent to the brick behind it. I pulled my covers from my bed. I took my book from my table and ripped every individual page, letting them float across the room like snowflakes. My vision was going slightly blurry by the time I let my fists hit the floor. It was wooden and ever hit shocked up my arm.</p><p>"I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!" I screamed, leaving one final punch to the floor, pain shooting through my left hand. I must have broken my finger. That was fine. It was something to distract me from being alone.</p><p>"What are you doing?"</p><p>The sound of <em>her </em>voice washed over me like the showers that I got to take every night before bed. Refreshing like water, warm and soft, yet I shivered too.</p><p>I kept my eyes on the floor. I focused on the patch of blood I had left from my punches and hoped with all my heart that <em>she </em>was in a good mood.</p><p>I kept my mouth shut. I hoped she hadn't heard what I had just yelled.</p><p>"Aw..." <em>She </em>groaned from behind me. I knew that <em>she </em>was looking at the wall I had broken with the chair. "Mina, I thought we were done throwing things. I'll have to fix that." I felt a jab of euphoria when <em>she </em>said my name. I wanted to say <em>her </em>name back to <em>her</em>. I wanted to, in that moment tell <em>her </em>over and over again how sorry I was. That I loved <em>her, </em>and I wouldn't do anything like that again.<em> I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.</em> But That's just what <em>she </em>wanted me to say.</p><p>I forced myself to keep quiet. Not giving in to <em>her</em>, but not feeling confident enough to rebel.</p><p>"You know," I could hear <em>her </em>walking toward me. I had memorised the room and everything about it so well, that I could tell exactly where <em>she </em>was. <em>She </em>stopped right next to me on the left. <em>She </em>must be looking at the bed now and then the blood on the floor. The blood that was still dripping from my hands. "I was thinking of letting you go."</p><p>Unable to keep my silent composure any longer, I snapped my head to the left to observe <em>her </em>face.</p><p><em>She </em>looked at me calmly. Those beautiful eyes scanning my body and my busted knuckles. <em>Her </em>hair was tied up today, that meant <em>she </em>was in a good mood, so there was a low chance of <em>her </em>lying. I searched <em>her </em>body for any sign of a lie. When <em>she </em>lied it was hard to tell, but I had been with <em>her </em>for so long that I knew every part of <em>her</em>. <em>Her </em>eyes were calmly watching over me. <em>Her </em>hands lay relaxed by <em>her </em>sides. <em>Her </em>legs were relaxed, one supporting the weight of <em>her </em>body while the other dangled slightly. <em>She </em>was too relaxed to be lying. <em>Her </em>eyes weren't wavering. <em>Her </em>mouth didn't pull up even the slightest on the right side of <em>her </em>face. <em>Her </em>breathing wasn't ragged and sharp. <em>She </em>meant what <em>she </em>said. <em>She </em>was telling the truth. But I still had to hear it out loud.</p><p>"Really?" I asked, my heart speeding up exponentially.</p><p><em>She </em>knelt down to my eye level and gently took my hands in <em>hers</em>. <em>She </em>didn't answer for a while; <em>she </em>just ran <em>her </em>thumb across my knuckles. It hurt, but I was almost comforted by it.</p><p>"Yes." <em>She </em>said eventually, looking up to meet my eyes. "I think I've kept you here for too long."</p><p>The words 'too long' echoed around my head.</p><p>"Too long?" I repeated, a sudden sadness overtaking me.</p><p>I hate it when my emotions get confused like this. I should be happy. No. I should be jumping for joy. How long have I been locked up in this room for? How long have I searched for an escape? How long have I waited to find a way to get away from <em>her</em>?</p><p>But tears found their way to my eyes anyway and a deep feeling of loss drove into my stomach. I looked at my reflection in <em>her </em>eyes. I looked into my own eyes through <em>hers</em>. Then she said something. My reflection spoke without me even opening my mouth.</p><p>
  <em>It's not long enough.</em>
</p><p>"I've got something for those hands of yours." She muttered and pulled a first aid kit from her back pocket. She never used to carry one around, but when I started to hurt myself, she took one everywhere. She opened it gingerly and began to wrap a bandage over my bloody knuckles.</p><p>"I'm sorry I can't do anything about the broken finger." She said as she wrapped up my left hand. "You can get a doctor to do that once you're out."</p><p>She was so gentle.</p><p>"Are you ready to go?" She asked, standing up after the bandaging was done. "Are you ready to be free?"</p><p>For the first time in a long time, I was unable to read her expression. Her eyebrows were neutral. Her jaw was neither slack, nor tensed. Her face was still.</p><p>Was I ready to be free?</p><p>I didn't know how to react to that sentence. I didn't know what to feel.</p><p>It had been so long since I had been free. It felt like she was all I knew. Like all my childhood had been erased and all that was left was her. Her face, her smile, her hair, her skin, her touch, her scent, her voice, her laugh, her scream, her kisses. All I could remember was her.</p><p>"No." I heard my voice say. It was muscle driven as if she had asked me a similar question over and over again in the past. Maybe she had. But I agreed.</p><p>"No?" She repeated. She looked dumbfounded. "Didn't you just say: 'I can't do this anymore'? Don't you want to leave this place?"</p><p>I wondered the same thing for a moment, before I realised why I couldn't bare the thought of leaving.</p><p>"I just don't get it." She looked so unsure of herself. Something that had never happened for as long as I had known her. She was always sure. She always knew what was going to happen. She always knew how to handle a situation. I guess I surprised her with my answer. I surprised myself too.</p><p>"What would I do without you, Momo?" I mumbled. Using her name was like eating the chocolate that she brought me when I was good. I stood from by place on the ground and began to walk toward her. Her eyes widened.</p><p>"What would I have to live for?" I continued. I saw regret in her eyes. A deep regret. I couldn't think of where the origin for it might be. I was so close to her now. She usually didn't let me touch her without permission, but I found my arms moving on their own. They snaked around her waist and I leaned my head on her chest. I could hear her heart beating. She was afraid. Her breathing was uneven. A little more out than in. Her muscles were tensed as if she were ready to bolt. And her heart was racing.</p><p>"What would I wake up to every morning? What traps would anyone lay out for me to avoid? Where would the pretend escape hatches be? When would I be taken to a shower? When would I ever be held so tightly at night again?"</p><p>I could hear Momo mumbling to me.</p><p>"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She was shaking slightly. "I'm killing you."</p><p>My heart leapt at the irony of her words.</p><p>"No, Momo, it's the opposite." I breathed in her scent. It made me so afraid to be so close to her. To be touching her without permission. But once again I knew for sure that my emotions were confused. "You're keeping me alive." I said. "If you weren't here right now, I would have killed myself long ago."</p><p>I wasn't looking at her face, but I knew her eyes were observing the state of the room again.</p><p>"Why haven't you tried the window." She whispered.</p><p>The truth was, I did. It was open. She never locked it.</p><p>"I don't want to be free." I told her. She was so warm, and she felt so good in my arms.</p><p>She gave in to my embrace and placed a light kiss on my neck.</p><p>"I guess that makes us both crazy."</p><p> </p>
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